


I Just Do (One Day)

by TaylorRaeMarten



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Au of sorts, Based off Little Red Riding Hood, Canonical Character Death, Childhood Memories, Claudia calls Stiles Mischief, Claudia knows about Werewolves, Derek Hale as the Big Bad Wolf, F/F, F/M, First Meetings, Gen, M/M, Mentioned Laura Hale, Misch for short, Mischief, Pre-Slash, Stiles "Mischief" Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski as Little Red Riding Hood, The Hale Fire, but not really, mentioned Cora Hale - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 12:32:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9607748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaylorRaeMarten/pseuds/TaylorRaeMarten
Summary: She would tell him stories, the kind he stopped believing in along with Santa Claus. On nights when the moon was only hung a few feet away. They would cuddle up on the front porch swing, swaying along with the breeze as she went on and on about the family that lived out in the woods. Some nights his father would make them hot chocolate and would join in as Stiles and his mother would listen intently for rustling leaves and choked out howls. “Werewolves,” she claimed with a knowing glint in her eye and a loving smile on her lips, “there aren’t any wolves in California Misch. How else would you explain it?” He could never sit still long enough to hear what his mother swore was there. Unfortunately even the doctors began to agree, Santa wore a Sheriff’s suit and his mother had lost her mind.





	

**Author's Note:**

> If you have read any of my works you'll see this stems from my poem Red. Last semester I had to rewrite a fairy tale for a poem and this semester I had to do the same for a mini narrative! I'm really feeling this story though and thinking about turning it into a series or chaptered fic. Please let me know what you think, Comments and Kudos are greatly appreciated. It's tagged as Werewolves are known, but that's debatable. Claudia knows, and Stiles does eventually. But they aren't like common knowledge. Also, Misch is a super cute way of shortening Mischief and yeah, I love that Claudia would call Stiles that because holy hell you know that's had to describe him perfectly as a kid. Anywho.  
> TW: Sheriff's canon battle with alcohol abuse, Claudia's death, Hale Fire, the usual.

At four years old, his mother gifted him with a coat. It was hooded with a zipper up the front. Never spoken, but _please remember me_ was stitched in every seam. It was a few sizes too big but he cherished it all the same, after all red was his favorite color. He wore it every day for two years even after the comfortably worn holes began to gape, falling apart just like his life. It wasn’t a surprise when her treatment began to fail. They had known for a little over a year that the drug was experimental, survival was not a guarantee but a slightly elongated lifespan was enough for her to agree. After his mother’s death his father began to spend his days at the station and his nights at the kitchen table, hunched over cases of files and bottles of Jack.

It took three months and twelve steps for his father to tear himself away from the new routine. But on the morning he turned six Stiles tore open the sizable box his father placed on his bed. His gift neatly tucked into the space, a jacket, fitting and identical to the last. It became a silent promise from his father to be the parent he needed him to be, replacing the jacket whenever needed be.

Bundled up tight to protect himself in the subtle California breeze, Stiles found himself on a journey to his mother’s grave. It wasn’t his initial destination, usually he would heed to his father’s warnings and stay out of the woods alone. In the ten years she’d been gone he rarely ever made the trip without his dad, and never after sunset. Tonight, there was something about the moon that switched his legs into autopilot. Egotistical the thing was, the way it took up the night sky, overshadowing all of the stars. He stayed on the well-worn path even after he remembered he had somewhere else to be. It was nights like this that he barely remembered she was gone. So he indulged himself on memories of her as the brisk breeze flowed through the tall pines forced and him to burrow deeper into his newest hoodie.

She would tell him stories, the kind he stopped believing in along with Santa Claus. On nights when the moon was only hung a few feet away. They would cuddle up on the front porch swing, swaying along with the breeze as she went on and on about the family that lived out in the woods. Some nights his father would make them hot chocolate and would join in as Stiles and his mother would listen intently for rustling leaves and choked out howls. _“Werewolves,”_ she claimed with a knowing glint in her eye and a loving smile on her lips, _“there aren’t any wolves in California Misch. How else would you explain it?”_ He could never sit still long enough to hear what his mother swore was there. Unfortunately even the doctors began to agree, Santa wore a Sheriff’s suit and his mother had lost her mind.

She was buried out in the edge of town, near the old burned down house that once housed the family she spoke of. Where an arsonist seemed to prove they weren’t as invincible as his mother believed. The packed house went down in flames taking all but three, he had heard rumors about the fire. With only a few definite details everyone in the town began to act as if they were an ace investigator. His father had worked the case, but shut down any and all questions his son’s inquisitive mind supplied.

Passing by the charred remains lead him to wonder how she would have taken the news. She would have cried tears that would have reflected off of her cheeks on one of their shared moonlit nights. Her burdened body draped over wobbly knees, feet pulled in close on the front porch swing. Complete silence aside from the wheezing sobs she would croak out every time she would remember. Similar to the ones he restrained as he knelt beside her weathered headstone that was hidden behind the trees, her final resting place in her second home.

As he grew older his father would use the old stories as a scare tactic, to keep him out of the woods alone. Although his father never believed, he held tight to the facts of rampant coyotes and mountain lions. Vicious and blood-thirsty, unlike the pleasant creatures his mother would go as far to label harmless, to the right people. _“I just do Misch,”_ his mother would supply whenever he asked how his mother had so much information about the family. _“I can’t tell you everything, but I know you understand.”_ and when he claimed he didn’t she would assure him he would “ _one day.”_

As he rose, wiping at his watering eyes he spotted a figure observing from the tree line. Had he not known any better he would assume it was a deputy, sent out to search for him once his father noticed he was gone. But his phone read thirty minutes until midnight and no missed calls.

He called on his mother in a silent prayer. His father once told him that above all else she was fearless, even outside of her prime. Moving closer he could see the figure more clearly, a masculine physique that seemed no taller than himself. Yet his presence was enticing, familiar almost. Approaching the man before him Stiles came to notice he couldn’t be more than a few years older than himself. At sixteen Stiles was tall, lanky and not nearly as muscular as the stranger. He cast all hesitation aside as he made an effort to make eye contact. They stayed like that, staring at each other. Silence saying all that needed to be said. In that moment Stiles recognized who was standing before him.

Although he never knew them personally, he recalls that night vividly. His father was still a deputy, only working days since Stiles was still too young to fend for himself. But that night they called in every cop in the county. He remembered how his father shook him out of bed, rushing him into the cruiser and barreling towards the station sirens blasting. He couldn’t comprehend it all through sleepy eyes, but he knew something bad happened, something really bad.

They were just kids, no more than a few years gap between the three. Each one holding on to the other with all of their might, holding on to all they had left. The shared desperation of the siblings burned into Stiles’ drowsy consciousness. After that the Hale siblings became overnight sympathy celebrities, many of the local newspapers printed profiles on the family, survivors included. They skipped town not soon after.

The longer he stared the more sure he grew. His mother’s stories bombarded every part of his being. Derek Hale, the youngest son, now the only son. Five years had passed since the night of the fire and it was shown on his face. The young broken boy he encountered in the police station was nowhere to be found. In his place stood a man that knew his place: in his pack, in these woods. Finally breaking his gaze, Stiles closed his eyes and took a deep breath to regain his composure.

There was no longer a part of him screaming to retreat as he remembered his mother’s words. _“Eyes, good enough to see you coming. Ears, good enough to know you’re there. And more strength than you would ever believe. If you aren’t welcome, you won’t even get close.”_ With a solemn nod of respect he ended the exchange with the wolf, understanding what his mother meant long ago.  Turning away, he began his trek back home, but not before stopping once more and returning the knowing smile his mother gave him so many years before. He didn’t need a howl in the distance or glowing eyes, to convince him that his mother had never lied. _He just knew._


End file.
